A loss of words. A loss of words declining across each page a trickling delta, casting out onto the sun-baked plain Rising there, folding a thousand times rippling the air, in a trembling mass of horizon promises. How does this vocabulary struggle to break free from schooled maleficence? How does the whisper tremble to press dry presence from these words older than memory? Pray these opening days might hold a better phrase, finding in the silence of the wilderness a diction which precedes comprehension, and commits every moment to a more profound breath, worth enduring their novel consequence. Mourning? thy sentiment is misplaced! To test these waters, without strength or will to grasp success, is but to feign life in so much mortal cloth. But what of life is there? What of that perduring light yet glimmers in these eyes? Without words to utter across the open between us, which by their passage might transport a warming touch, Without a soul to touch this lost mind, or stroke friendship into these cold and broken shoulders, There seems but little hope to gather strength for the coming storm of Creation.